


The Night of the Thaw

by Dame_DeFaillenot



Category: Wild Wild West (1965)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Near Death Experience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-29
Updated: 2009-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-07 06:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dame_DeFaillenot/pseuds/Dame_DeFaillenot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If not for the child, Jim would have considered himself wasted on this job. And now, in service to this… this caricature of a real mission, Artemus Gordon was dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night of the Thaw

**Author's Note:**

> First published in _Gentlemen Never Tell 10_, June 2008, and edited by Marian K. To order this and other Wild Wild West zines, go to [The Depot](http://fanficdepot.com/zines.html)

“James!”

Focused as he was on tying the rope around his chest as securely as possible, Jim barely heard Artie over the rush of water. He turned toward his partner, refusing to think that perhaps Artie’s voice was weaker now than it had been a minute ago.

Jim could see the strain on Artie’s face. He imagined he could see his partner’s muscles bunching through the wet leather of his riding jacket as he clutched at the downed tree.

“James!” Artie’s shout was more urgent.

Jim tested the rope with one last tug, then began inching his way toward Artemus through the raging stream. Almost. Almost there. A few more feet and he’d be able to get the second rope around his partner. If he couldn’t pull them both to the bank, at least they would be secure until the flow calmed. Flash floods were deadly, but they were over quickly.

Just as Jim drew close enough to get the rope around Artie, a rush of water slammed a tree into the end of the one Artie was grasping. The shock was enough to break Artie’s grip, and for a terrible instant Jim was sure he’d lost his partner to the flood. But Artemus was quick, and managed to grab hold again. That was the good news. The bad news was that he was now ten feet farther from the safety of Jim and Jim’s ropes.

Jim only had six feet of extra reach in the rope that secured him to the bank. With Artie’s new position, Jim would be unable to get up next to him. The rope in his hands was long enough to reach and secure Artemus, but Jim had hoped to avoid having to throw a lariat. The thicket of branches surrounding Artie made his partner a difficult target, and his own unstable footing only made things worse. He didn’t see any choice, and started setting the coil for the complicated throw.

Artemus was trying to get his attention again, his voice hard to distinguish over the tumultuous rumble of the stream. Then, too, part of Jim was unwilling to pay attention, fearing that his partner would say something he really didn’t want to hear.

“Just a second, Artie. Let me get you secured and then I’ll listen.”

“No time, Jim.”

Jim’s head swung toward Artie. “There’s plenty of time.” Willing it to be so, Jim returned to setting the rope, giving it a couple of experimental swings.

“No, James. Listen!” The strain of Artie’s predicament was apparent in his breathless, clipped words, and the increased urgency made Jim look at him before he even realized what he was doing.

“Finish the job, James,” Artemus ordered.

Jim flicked a look at Artie’s hands. They seemed secure, though bloodless and white from the strain and the cold. He refused to acknowledge the implied surrender. “Hold on! Almost there.”

“Help that child!”

“Artemus, just hang on one more minute!”

Artemus suddenly raised his head, his brown eyes blazing intensely, burning into Jim’s, branding him with their heat. “It was worth it. All of it, James. Worth it.”

Then, before Jim’s horrified gaze, the branch in Artie’s right hand snapped and the rushing torrent ripped his body sideways. For one short second, he was able to cling one-handed, but the pull of the flood proved too strong, and he was torn loose.

Even though it was futile, Jim couldn’t help lunging toward Artemus as he disappeared under the roiling brown water. He lost his footing, and by the time he hauled himself upright, his partner was nowhere in sight. Jim barely noticed the debris buffeting his legs as he stared downstream, searching for any sign. It wasn’t until a particularly large branch slammed into him and almost knocked him down again that he began to pull himself hand over hand to safety along the rope tethering him to the bank.

When he reached solid ground, he sat heavily, and stared unseeing at his feet. The fact that he was soaked through didn’t register. Nor did the sound of the water rushing through the gully.

*****

  
Eventually, a skitter of pebbles on the arroyo wall drew Jim back to awareness. The shallow canyon was completely in shadow, though Jim could see that the sun still warmed the flatlands above.

The water in the wash was much lower and slower — deceptively so. Downed trees and branches and gouged banks testified to the recent violence, but the muddy stream moved as sluggishly as any lazy southern river. By morning there would be only standing water in the gully, and in a week it would be completely dry again.

Jim stood slowly. He had a job to do. With his last breath, Artemus had demanded, and Jim would obey.

Moving stiffly, Jim climbed into the sun. As he expected, the well-trained horses were waiting, grazing patiently on the tender spring shoots growing along the bluff. He gathered the reins of his partner’s gelding and mounted his own horse gracelessly.

It took little skill to track the outlaws they’d been following, and Jim quickly picked up their trail. Jim turned his mount and moved out slowly, leading Artie’s horse behind his own.

It took only a day for Jim to find the criminals. They were lawbreakers, but not venal, and the eight-year-old girl had been well cared for. Seeing to her comfort slowed them down, making catching them even easier. All the time he followed them, he thought only of the trail.

It wasn’t difficult to get them to surrender. To hear them tell it, it was all an accident. The three men, still boys, really, admitted to setting out to rob the bank in Gebhard. They had no idea that new $100 bill plates destined for the Denver Mint were secured overnight in the bank’s vault. By the time they’d noticed that the number of guards was triple what they’d expected, they were already too deep into the robbery to stop. Grabbing the little girl from where she played on the boardwalk was as much a way to keep from having to shoot the guards as to keep the guards from shooting them.

Jim and Artemus were only passing through Gebhard, but as Secret Service agents it was their responsibility to protect the plates and apprehend the robbers. And even without that duty, neither of them was capable of ignoring a hostage child.

If not for the child, Jim would have considered himself wasted on this job. And now, in service to this… this caricature of a real mission, Artemus Gordon was dead.

*****

  
“Pa! Pa, come quick! There’s a man down there!”

Isaiah McCrary jerked alert from his doze and climbed down from the wagon seat as he shouted to his son, “You sure, Sam?” It seemed unlikely that the flash flood had washed up a man. Anyone swept away at this crossing would be far downstream by now, and there weren’t many roads or towns upstream of here. If Sam was wrong, and it wasn’t a man but a flood-killed deer, elk or buffalo, it might be fresh enough to eat. If he was right, and it was a man, the least Isaiah could do was give the poor soul a decent burial.

“Yeah, Pa. And hurry! He just moved!”

McCrary moved faster at that. Chances were not good for anyone who’d been in that river. The man was likely too broken to live for even the trip back to the homestead. The homesteader scrambled down the bank to the dark shape his son had spotted. It was a man, and he was alive. As McCrary crossed the wide flat, he watched the man slowly straighten each arm and leg and move them as if to test them. Miraculously, they all seemed to work. Isaiah broke into a run. It looked like the fool was trying to sit up, and Isaiah planned to be there to help him. It was beyond understanding how anyone could have come through that flood alive, much less as unscathed as this man appeared to be, but Isaiah McCrary was not one to question Providence, and maybe this fellow’s luck would rub off on the family that helped him.

*****

  
When Jim had finally delivered the hostage back into the arms of her family, and handled all the details involved with incarcerating and charging the criminals, he asked for and got two weeks leave. He was going to find Artemus’s body and lay it to rest. If he got to it soon enough, he might be able to bring Artie’s remains back to civilization for a proper funeral. Otherwise, he would bury his partner here in the West.

The abbreviated messages he could send and receive via telegraph couldn’t convey much emotion, so he was spared the sympathy of his superiors. He knew that facing others was unavoidable — at the funeral or memorial service, at the very least — but for now Jim didn’t need to endure the inevitable, well-intentioned, and completely unwanted comments and queries.

Jim returned to the wash. It was dry. Not even a trickle. No sign of the raging river that had claimed his partner. The downed tree that Artemus had clung to was partially buried in sand, and Jim could see the marks of his own safety rope scoring the bark of a tree halfway up the slope.

Having learned his lesson in the worst possible way, Jim urged his horse back up to the flatland above the arroyo. Turning downstream, he began searching along the dry riverbed, looking for any sign of his partner.

It was grueling. On and off his horse, scrambling down the brush-covered slopes, looking under and behind anything large enough to hold a man. Most of the water was long gone, but there were still some small shaded pools and areas of moisture, and these were breeding insects that swarmed and bit. Jim wrapped a shirt around his head to protect his skin from bites in the mornings and evenings, but during the heat of the day it was unbearable to cover up so closely.

Occasionally Jim would step on a patch of what he thought was solid ground only to sink ankle-deep into silt-covered mud. Once it was knee-deep, and sucked his boot right off his foot. He fell in trying to retrieve it, and by the time he managed to get free, he was bootless and covered in stinking mud. There was no water to wash in, so he had to make do with cleaning his hands and face with a moistened bandanna.

A week into his search, the steep sides of the gully leveled out into a short, broad plain where a road crossed the dry water course. The sand at the crossing was disturbed by human foot prints. Jim looked over the area closely, but found nothing left to indicate what had happened, so he moved on.

Jim rose with the sun and searched as long as there was light. He ate in the saddle, and only deviated from the dry riverbed to find drinking water. He grew gaunt, brown, and bearded. His horse was fortunate — the slow pace of the search gave the poor beast a chance to browse, supplementing the meager fodder Jim could carry.

Many nights Jim didn’t bother with a fire. Bedding down by a campfire reminded him sharply, painfully of nights spent on the trail with Artemus. Jim didn’t allow himself the memories. He couldn’t. He felt fragile as spun glass. Remembering would shatter him.

By the end of his two weeks, Jim must have combed the wash for thirty miles. There was no sign of Artemus. Jim almost kept on with the search, almost didn’t go back, but he could only delude himself so much. If he hadn’t found anything by now, he never would.

At the nearest town, Jim made use of a barber, a telegraph office, and a hotel bathroom, then caught the train back to Washington.

Jim’s first duty when he got back to the capitol was to endure the memorial service. It was everything Artie would have hated. Stodgy, stuffed shirts praised his partner with ten dollar words. No-one laughed, no-one joked, no-one who knew Artie, not even Jim, spoke. Artie would have been bored to tears.

The unofficial wake at a hotel bar was better. Agent after agent came up to Jim and told him stories of working with Artie, going on the town with Artie, just spending time with Artie. Artemus saving their lives, showing them how to appreciate the theater, introducing them to their wives and sweethearts. These were hardened men, men who’d survived the war a decade earlier, but when they talked about his partner their faces softened into smiles and their eyes lit up. For a short while, Jim was comforted. At least someone else had seen the man he’d grown to like and depend on.

Later, though, as he got ready for bed, Jim was reminded of the gaping emptiness left in his life. He’d managed to keep his focus firmly away from the hole during the pursuit of the thieves and the wrap-up of the case, during the search for Artie’s remains and during the memorial service itself. Now, in the incomplete darkness of a city hotel room, it all threatened to come crashing in. He found himself shaking so violently he couldn’t unfasten his clothing. He yanked the straight chair out from under the writing desk and sat. Drawing himself upright, he dragged deep breaths in through his nostrils, forcing his thoughts to calmness, forcing his muscles to stillness. He was James West and he would not break. Artemus had told him to do the job, and from now on, he would.

The James West who reported for assignment the next day was a different man. What was stoic before became ice. He had never been a prankster, but working with Artemus Gordon had nurtured an easy humor and even some subtle mischief. That was all gone now. Occasional smiles still graced Jim’s handsome face, but they were masks used for the job, only ever skin deep.

His superiors had no cause for complaint. Every assignment was executed with ruthless efficiency. Jim was unfailingly polite and politic when the situation demanded, and a whirlwind of cold violence when faced with the need. His body had never been stronger, his eye never keener. Jim had turned himself into the perfect agent.

As a commander in the Secret Service, Colonel Richmond understood the value of a man like James West — he could be sent anywhere, ordered to do anything. An agent like West could be counted on to do whatever was needed to get the job done. As a man, though, Richmond couldn’t help seeing how close to the edge Jim walked. He noted the transition from man to animated mannequin, saw how tightly Jim held himself. That was why the colonel didn’t press another partner on Jim. James West was a walking powder keg, and Richmond wanted his other agents far away from the explosion.

Jim was not blind to his own condition. He evaluated his actions carefully: does this do the job? Is this risk necessary? What are the real consequences?

Sometimes Jim wondered why he bothered to force himself through a world that had turned so cold. Then he remembered that Artemus had told him it was all worth it. Most days Jim couldn’t quite figure out how anything was worth this emptiness, but he’d always been able to trust Artemus. Maybe it would be clear later. For now, he’d keep holding on, keep in control.

At the edge of sleep, Jim found himself thinking about how Artemus had let go. Is this what it had felt like in that raging stream? The constant pull, the seductive knowledge that all he had to do was give up and relax? Artie had known the end was coming. He wouldn’t have said what he did otherwise. Didn’t Artie think it was worth fighting anymore? Why did he let go?

Jim stopped drinking. On his first assignment after the memorial service, he was on the train heading west. With no-one to keep him company and nothing else to do, Jim got drunk. Jim got so drunk he passed out in the parlor of the train. When he woke to stabbing sunlight he found his gun drawn and a round in the chamber. He had no memory of that night, but he could put together the clues. There had been no enemy in the train for him to shoot at. He’d meant that bullet for himself. God alone knows what stayed his hand, but he wasn’t going to give himself the chance again.

One thing Jim couldn’t control was the part of his mind that kept expecting to see Artie. The train was the worst. How could such a small space hold so many ghosts? At first it was constant. Then less frequently, only once or twice a day. Eventually, Jim was able to go whole days without thinking of Artie. But it still happened. He’d be walking down the street and catch sight of someone in a flat black hat, or with a fancy vest, or a fringed leather jacket, like the one Artie was wearing when he died, and he’d have to keep moving, stay his tongue, not shout out a greeting.

*****

  
Only ten weeks after Artie’s service, Jim found himself back in the same area. He was just passing though, on his way to hook up with a team of agents at the Denver Mint. The old plates needed to be transferred back to Washington, and after the fiasco with the new plates, the Service wasn’t taking any chances.

Jim was traveling alone. His superiors hadn’t pushed too hard for him to take on a permanent partner, though Jim knew it was coming. As long as Jim didn’t fight the temporary teamings that lasted one or two assignments, he figured he could get away with being on his own for a while longer.

Jim had taken to using Artie’s horse to carry his gear. It was really too good a horse to use as a pack animal, but Jim wanted to keep the gelding, and this was the most expedient way.

Passing a homestead, he heard the steady _thok_ of an ax on wood, and a jaunty baritone. As he got closer, he could hear that the words were not in English. Even closer, and he realized he recognized both the words and the tune.  
_La donna è mobile  
qual piuma al vento  
muta d’accento  
e di pensiero…_

It was from that Italian opera that Artemus had dragged him to a while back in Washington. Jim protested at the time, but found himself enjoying the music and the twisted tragedy. This particular aria must have stuck in Artemus’s head, because Jim had caught him humming or singing it under his breath whenever he was concentrating.

Jim almost smiled, remembering how Artie would stick with one song until another that he liked better would chase the previous one from his head.

Now, here in the foothills of the Rockies, someone else was working to the same song. Jim had never heard Artemus sing it out like this, but he could imagine this was what it would have sounded like. The man’s voice was so like Artie’s — rich and deep and full — Jim couldn’t just ride on by.

Justifying himself that he had to tend the horses and eat his lunch anyway, Jim turned in to the yard in front of the solidly built home. Loosely looping the reins of both horses over the hitching rail, Jim went around the house to make himself known and to ask permission to water his animals at the homestead’s trough.

Jim spotted the singer as soon as he came around the corner of the house. The dark-haired man had his back to Jim, and couldn’t hear him over his own singing. The pile of hewn quarters on his right was larger than the log sections on his left, indicating that he’d been at it for some time. He’d stripped off his shirt in the heat of the day, and as he raised and lowered the ax, Jim could see the powerful muscles work smoothly under the lightly tanned skin. Without seeing the face, Jim couldn’t tell the man’s age, but the height, breadth of shoulders, hair, and voice were so similar to Artie’s that Jim found himself thinking it _was_ Artie.

Shaking his head sharply to dispel the illusion, Jim waited until the ax was in a safe position, then called out to get the man’s attention. The singing stopped immediately, and the man put down the tool and pulled out a kerchief to wipe his sweating face. He was already shrugging on his shirt as he turned to face Jim.

“Hello, friend.” The man looked up from his buttons to face Jim with a welcoming smile.

Jim froze as time stretched around him. The knot he’d carried in his chest since Artie’s death grew huge, closing off the breath in his throat, and though he knew his mouth was working, he couldn’t force out a single sound.

“Are you all right, friend?” The man approached him to offer aid.

“Artie.” The single hoarse word was all Jim could say.

“Do I know you? Wait… Do you know _me_?”

“Artie,” Jim managed again. “Artemus Gordon.”

“You _do_ know me!” A broad smile lit the man’s face. “That’s wonderful! You’ll have to tell me all about me.”

Jim stared at the man. It was Artemus. There was no mistaking the face or the voice. But the manner was more open than he’d ever seen from Artemus. This man had no guile in him. He called the world _friend_ and meant it.

“Don’t you know who you are?” Jim’s question was abrupt, even rude, but Artie didn’t seem to notice.

“Not really.” Could the man really be as unconcerned as he sounded? “I seem to have risen from the river like Venus from the Mediterranean, except with clothing, and without my memory. Isaiah, he owns this place, brought me home and gave me a place to recover. We’ve been calling me Adam, and waiting for something to bring me back to myself. And here you are!” This time Jim caught the strange mix of fear and relief in the brown eyes before the smile was back full force.

Jim didn’t know how to react. Here was Artemus, undeniably alive, but while the flesh was whole, the person inside was _not_ his partner.

The man at least appeared to have Artie’s intelligence. As if he sensed Jim’s uncertainty, he took over the conversation with questions about himself. Where was he born? Where did he grow up? Where was his family now?

Jim was embarrassed to realize that he didn’t know much about Artie’s past. But when the questions turned to the present, and to what they were to each other, Jim felt a little better. Leaving out anything particularly secret, Jim described their partnership, some missions, and their working relationship. He told him about the luxurious train they lived on, and described Artie’s workshop — the man found the varied list of explosive devices particularly fascinating. Jim talked about some of their adversaries: disappearing, reappearing Count Manzeppi, Dr. Faustina the reanimator, and the nefarious, seemingly immortal Miguelito Loveless. He even went so far as to talk about some of the women they’d met.

Through it all Artemus paid close attention, asking probing questions when faced with some of the more bizarre tales. James could tell, though, that there was no spark of recognition. It was as if it had all happened to someone else.

Jim didn’t know what to do. This was so far out of his experience. All he could think of was to get Artie to come with him. Surely there were doctors in Washington who could help his friend.

The openness he’d noted before worked in his favor. Artemus agreed with to go with James immediately when he suggested it. There was no suspicion or cynicism in his response. He believed that James was who he said, that their relationship was as described, and that Jim had his best interests at heart when he asked Artie to accompany him.

While Artemus went to gather his few possessions, Jim went out deal with the horses. He had to redistribute the load, since the second horse would now be carrying Artemus. There was no second saddle, but Jim was fine with riding bareback. They’d find something in the first town they rode through, or the town after that. Jim wasn’t leaving Artemus behind, even if he had to ride bareback all the way to Denver.

Jim was still repacking his supplies when Artie came out of the house.

“Look, Mr. West—”

“Jim. Or James. Not Mr. West.”

“James, then. Look. I can’t leave until the McCrarys get back this afternoon, so there’s no hurry. Why don’t you take the bits out of their mouths and let these poor beasts get a proper meal. I can fix us something, too.”

Jim needed to get Artemus to a doctor. He needed someone who understood what they were doing to fix Artie’s memory. The urgency was physical, making Jim’s muscles clench and his skin itch. He forced himself to take a breath. He couldn’t let this tension show, or Artemus, even as guileless as he was now, might get leery and refuse to come with him.

Difficult as it was, Jim agreed to the delay. And when he consulted his rational self, how could he do otherwise? Jim owed these McCrarys, and he needed to find some way to thank them. Spiriting Artemus away, no matter how desperate Jim’s need to get Artie into a doctor’s care, was not the way to treat the family who saved the life of his best friend.

Jim stepped up next to his horse’s head, reaching up to loosen the bridle. Artemus moved over to the big chestnut pack horse to do the same. The gelding, not surprisingly, recognized Artie, and butted him in the chest, hoping for one of the little treats Artie would occasionally hide inside his jacket. Artemus just laughed as he gently cuffed the horse high on the neck.

“Nothing for you today, Caesar, you ol’ glutton,” Artie chided as he shoved the chestnut’s head aside to get to his halter.

It took Jim a second, but then he looked up sharply. He’d never told Artemus the horse’s name, and yet here was something that Artie remembered!

“Artie?”

“Yeah, Jim?” Artie’s voice was different than it had been moments before. Something undefinable. Jim couldn’t have described it in words, but he heard the difference, knew that this was Artemus Gordon, not the man with no memory.

“Tell me something. What’s your name?”

“Now that’s a foolish question.” Artie’s reply had that amused, tolerant tone. He was obviously humoring Jim. “I’m Artemus Gordon. Who else would I—”

Artemus stopped short. The blood drained from his face and he swayed, grabbing on to the horse to keep himself upright. Jim jumped to his side and put a hand under his elbow.

“Artie!”

  
“Fine. I’m fine, James. Just…” Artemus stumbled slightly as he let go of the horse and headed for the nearby porch steps. Jim went with him, subtly supporting him until he was securely seated and braced against an upright.

Jim got his flask out and offered it to Artemus. When his partner was done, he took a quick swallow himself before putting the flask away. The whiskey seemed to do the trick, and the color slowly returned to Artie’s cheeks.

Artie’s eyes flickered back and forth, a slight frown creasing his brow. He was obviously seeing things deep inside his own mind. Jim didn’t want to interrupt him. If Artie was getting his memories back, Jim wanted him to remember as much as possible. It was painfully difficult to be patient. Jim was on tenterhooks, burning to find out what Artemus was remembering. Waiting quietly was almost more than Jim could manage.

Just as Jim thought he could stand no more, Artemus finally spoke, telling Jim exactly what he needed to hear. “It’s all there, James. I remember everything.”

Artemus still refused to leave until the McCrarys returned. They spent the waiting time doing small chores around the homestead. Jim stuck close to Artie, listening as he went over memories out loud. Jim was reassured by the conversation. Artemus really did remember their partnership. Even better, he learned a number of new things about Artie’s past.

In the end, the leave-taking was uneventful. Isaiah refused compensation for the time Artemus had spent eating his food and sleeping in his house. When he suggested that he should be paying Artie instead for all the work he’d done, they both agreed to let the matter drop.

Sam McCrary was particularly unwilling to let Artemus go. The boy took a proprietary interest in the man he’d found on the riverbank. Artie promised several times to write, and his father frowned at him, before young Sam finally stood as tall as he could and offered Artie his hand. All three men were very careful not to notice when Sam turned away and blinked hard after the final farewell.

*****

  
Jim punched the padded bag. His knuckles were already swollen and sore, but he kept at it. He hadn’t wrapped his hands or donned gloves before he started, but he didn’t care. The pain had built, then faded, and he pounded harder, willing the sensation back into his bruised hands. He needed to feel.

It didn’t make sense. He had Artemus back, just as dependable, amusing, and irritating as before. Any ill effects Artie might have suffered from his ordeal were long past. Yet Jim couldn’t shake the numbness that had plagued him since the day in the flooded wash. There was still a hole in his heart, a black empty space that should have been filled the moment Artie came back to himself in the homestead yard.

Jim kept pounding as if physical activity could break through the ice that surrounded his soul. Sweat matted his hair and flowed into his eyes, blinding him, but he didn’t stop. He felt a stinging pain as the skin of one knuckle split, but he didn’t stop. The muscles in his back and shoulders burned and shook as he pushed his body past the threshold of exhaustion, but he didn’t stop.

Jim barely noticed when Artemus stepped into the stable car.

“Jim! Jim, you’re hurting yourself. Stop it!”

Jim continued to beat on the bag.

“James! Stop it now!” Jim was distantly aware that Artie had stepped closer.

“James!” Artemus reached out and pulled Jim away from the dummy. Jim’s arms kept pumping, and Artie had to jump to the side to avoid being hit. He kept hold of Jim, though, and when Jim slowed down and looked up, Artie firmly turned him and guided him toward the living section of the train.

After pushing Jim gently toward his room, Artie made a quick stop to grab first aid supplies. Jim was still standing in the doorway of the small bedroom, dripping sweat and all out of initiative. Artemus had to push him into the room in order to get past him.

Artie threw Jim a towel, saying, “Here, wipe yourself down. You’re a mess.” Jim complied, then just stood there holding the towel, unthinking, unable to find a reason for any kind of action. Artemus took pity on him, and didn’t chide him. He just put a warm hand on his shoulder and gently guided him to sit on the bed.

He took Jim’s hands and inspected them closely, feeling gently along the bones and joints to make sure there were no breaks or dislocations. “Hmmm. Not too bad. Only two knuckles split, and nothing broken. You got lucky. You could have ruined your hands.”

Jim kept his head down as Artie cleaned and bandaged his fingers, watching without seeing as Artemus gently handled him. Warmth slowly crept up his fingers into his hands. Wherever Artie touched, the cold that had been torturing Jim was banished. Then Artemus was done doctoring him. When Artie left his side to empty the bloody water from the wash basin and put away the supplies, it was as if he’d never been near. The chill settled back into Jim’s bones like it had never left.

Jim could hear his partner returning. He recognized the determination in Artie’s stride. The questions were coming, and if he didn’t want Artie reporting him to the colonel, he’d have to have real answers. Artemus wouldn’t stand for evasions, not after what he’d just seen Jim do.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?”

Jim continued to stare at the floor.

“Talk to me, James.”

Jim raised his head slowly and stared at his partner. He opened his mouth, closed it again. He shook his head slightly, negating whatever he was going to say. He took a short breath in through his nose, and tried again. Artemus kept silent, waiting out each aborted attempt.

It took five tries for Jim to start speaking. “I know I owe you an explanation. I just don’t know how to say it.”

“One word at a time,” Artemus encouraged with a gentle smile.

“I think I can do it in two.” Jim took another, bigger, breath. “You died.” Jim held up his hand to stop Artie from chiming in with the obvious rebuttal. “No, as far as I was concerned, you _died_.”

Jim fell silent. That had been the easy part. It was the rest of it that he couldn’t say. He looked up at Artemus. Maybe he didn’t have to say it. Maybe Artemus would know, just from those few words, what his death had done to Jim. Maybe he’d have a way to thaw this cage of ice around Jim’s soul.

Artemus stood there, leaning against the wall, his face set into its most sympathetic expression. But there was no understanding in his eyes, just encouragement. Jim would have to keep talking, or stop the conversation and continue to live this way.

“You died,” Jim repeated.

“It’s happened before,” Artie reminded him gently. “You thought I was dead before, and I came back. Just like this time. I came back.”

“This was different.”

Artie gestured for Jim to continue.

Jim looked away. He didn’t want to have to explain it, but Artemus had caught him out at the punching dummy, and now he had no other workable choice.

“Jim?”

“This time it was months, not hours or days. This time there was no-one to make pay. There was nothing to do but go back to the Service and go back to work. I’d had my furlough, and I used it to search for your body.” Jim just barely kept his voice steady over the word. “With no body and no bad guy, and a long history of resurrection, how could I help but hope? How could I not be jumping at shadows, expecting to see you around every corner?”

“A Secret Service agent can’t work that way. Your distraction could have gotten you killed!”

“Tell me about it. I had to stop being distracted. So I did.” This was all Jim could say. There was no way he could voice how everything inside him had just frozen solid. Not even to Artemus could he say the words _I died_.

Artemus stared at Jim, brown eyes narrowed and brow furrowed, like he was a problem that Artie could maybe see the solution to, if he just tried hard enough.

Then, thank God, Artie’s face cleared. He’d figured it out — figured something out, anyway. Jim knew he could count on Artie.

“Stop me if I’m wrong, here. You’re not giving me much to work with, so I’m going to guess.”

“I’ll take your guesses over any other man’s certainty, Artie.”

Artemus snorted softly. “Don’t flatter me until I get it right. You had to accept I truly died this time, right?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll bet you saw a lot of men who looked just like me, too.”

“Yes.”

“Did that hurt, James?” How could Artie’s voice be so gentle and still rip a hole in Jim’s heart?

“Yes,” Jim forced out through a throat suddenly lined with glass shards.

“How would you deal with that, I wonder?” Artie mused. “Would you get drunk every night? Would you get into fights? Or would you just get more serious? Would you focus on your work? Would you try to force yourself not to feel the pain?”

“Yes,” he whispered roughly.

“What about now? I’m back. I’m alive. Everything’s normal.”

Jim could not look Artemus in the eye as he said, “No.”

“No, what?”

Gathering his courage, Jim looked Artie in the face again. “No, everything’s not normal. You’re back, but I’m not. I turned it off, and now I can’t…”

“Can’t turn it on again? Still can’t feel?”

Jim turned his head away and swallowed thickly. Why had he wanted Artemus to figure it out? This cure was worse than the disease. “Still can’t feel,” he admitted.

“So this,” Artie gestured to Jim’s bandaged hands, “is…”

“…a way to feel, yes.”

“It’s not very smart.”

“Not very effective, either,” Jim replied, one corner of his mouth twitching up in a half-smile.

“What would work, do you think?”

“If I knew, I’d try it.”

They lapsed into silence, lost in thought.

“Not to be indelicate, James, my boy, but have you tried talking to one of your lady friends? I’m sure more than one of them would be happy to help you. There is, after all, nothing like a beautiful woman to get a man to focus on the here and now.”

Jim just shook his head. He had tried. The woman had been lovely and sweet, but one touch of her hand and Jim knew it wouldn’t work. He didn’t think he could feel any colder, but when she touched his sleeve flirtatiously, Jim could practically see the hoarfrost spreading up his arm. Jim’s fledgling desire had dissipated, and he politely but firmly removed himself from the situation. He hadn’t tried again. The constant cold inside was bad enough. He was not going to court a further descent into the darkness.

Since then, Jim had told himself he was used to the feeling, that he no longer even noticed it. Except when Artie was around. The only time Jim felt warm anymore was when Artemus was touching him.

It hadn’t happened often since Artemus had returned. That had been his own fault. Artie still touched him as much as he’d ever done, with little pats and gentle nudges when they were standing near each other, or passed each other when walking through a room. It was Jim who was keeping a distance — avoiding being too close, never initiating a touch himself. Just now, when Artie doctored his hands, was the longest they’d touched since Artie came back.

Jim knew why he kept away. As soon as Artie’s touch was gone, the numbness closed in again, colder and more desolate than before. Jim could endure the constant ice, but to be reminded of warmth, only to have it taken away? That was torture.

Artemus again proved his uncanny ability to mirror Jim’s thoughts as he stepped in front of Jim and extended a hand. “Stand up, James.”

Unthinking, Jim placed one of his bandaged hands in Artie’s and did as he was bid.

Instead of letting go, Artemus kept hold of Jim’s hand and said, “You haven’t verified my resurrection this time.”

“What?”

“Whenever I’ve come back from the dead before, you always have to make sure I’m really alive,” Artie’s voice was warm with affectionate amusement. “This time for some reason, you haven’t done it. So here,” Artie placed Jim’s hand flat against his own shirtfront and held it there, “feel for yourself. Heartbeat and everything. Alive.”

Oh, Lord, the heat of him! Yes, Jim felt Artie’s heartbeat, strong and even, under his palm. And yes, Artemus was right — this was something he’d always done to reassure himself when he’d thought his partner dead. Now, even through the wrappings, he could feel the warmth spread from Artie’s chest into his hand and up his arm.

Jim was paralyzed by conflicting impulses. Should he snatch his hand away before the heat reached his heart and it exploded from the sudden thaw? Or should he press himself closer to Artie, and try to melt the ice around his soul?

There was no hope that Artemus would ignore his unnatural stillness. Artie, being Artie, was already factoring it into the problem he was trying to solve, and soon he would know that his own touch was a part of what was happening with Jim. Problem or solution? Artie wouldn’t know yet. Hell, Jim didn’t know yet. Some of both, maybe. But Artemus would think and worry and pester and experiment until they both knew the answers.

Jim decided to cut short the waiting. He placed his other hand on Artie’s chest, too, and stepped in so that he could feel his partner’s heat all up and down his body. Jim closed his eyes and sucked in a breath as the warmth washed over him. He exhaled slowly, unable to control the uneven stutter, fearfully close to a sob. Another breath, smoother this time, and he hung his head, forehead almost touching Artie’s shoulder.

“Better, James?” Artemus asked gently.

Jim considered his answer. He was warmer now, but this wasn’t a true thaw. The cold was still there, the darkness still waiting to retake him when he stepped away from his partner’s touch.

Jim raised his head and looked straight at Artie, searching for some hint of what to admit and how to admit it. The mix of feelings showing in Artie’s eyes — concern, affection, a clear desire to help — decided Jim. If he couldn’t be honest now, he might as well let go and forever consign his soul to the ice.

“Some better, yeah, but, Artie… it’s not enough.”

“Then let me give you more.” Artemus brought his arms up, drawing Jim close with an arm around his waist and another around his shoulders, until their bodies were pressed together.

Jim felt himself trembling with unnamable emotion as Artie’s heat surrounded him. He clutched at his partner, pulling them together with desperate strength. The ice was breaking off in chunks, but the numbness still lingered. Jim needed more. He needed to feel.

“More, Artemus. Please.” Jim let one hand come up behind Artie’s head. He buried his fingers in Artie’s thick hair and used the grip to gently tilt Artie’s head. He leaned in slightly, clearly signaling his intent. “Please,” Jim whispered again, and searched Artie’s face for his answer.

Artemus acquiesced with a slight nod and Jim closed the distance, softly pressing his lips to Artie’s. For a brief moment, Jim stayed still, just feeling the connection. Then he had to move. He began a gentle exploration of Artie’s lips, felt the soft, moist skin under his, the slight prickle of whiskers, worked his way slowly along the swell of Artie’s lower lip, the bow of his upper one. Felt the flash of golden happiness when Artie began to move, too.

They kissed that way for a while — undemanding and soft. Then Jim dared to taste the corner of Artie’s mouth with the tip of his tongue. He felt the answering flicker as Artemus drew a line along his bottom lip, and gasped.

Artie took advantage of Jim’s open mouth, and slipped inside for a moment. Jim found himself opening even further to invite Artie’s tongue, and when Artemus added his teeth into the mix, nipping lightly at Jim’s lips, Jim caught fire. Suddenly the embrace, the gentle kissing, weren’t enough.

Jim pushed against Artie, opening his partner’s mouth forcefully with his tongue, licking inside, staking a claim. He nipped and nibbled and teased Artie, wanting more — more sensation, more heat, more of Artemus Gordon.

In this, as in everything, Artemus matched him. Instead of pushing him away, Artie pulled Jim closer. The hand from his shoulder came up behind his neck. Jim relished the heat of Artie’s fingers as they grasped his nape, pulling his head closer, making it impossible to separate his mouth from his partner’s. They dueled for ownership of the kiss, both tongues first in Artie’s mouth, then in Jim’s. They used teeth and suction to pull at and mark each other’s lips.

But even this wasn’t enough for Jim. He wanted to get closer. He wanted to feel Artie’s hands on his skin, and his hands on Artie’s. Ignoring the pain, he wormed a bandaged hand between their bodies and started to work open the buttons of Artie’s shirt.

Jim got the top two buttons undone and pushed the shirt open at Artie’s throat, exposing just enough skin for a few tantalizing brushes of his fingertips at the hollow. At his touch, Artemus jerked his mouth away from Jim’s. He stared at Jim, wide-eyed, then pressed him back, trying to make some space between them.

“Whoa. What’re you…?”

Jim clutched Artie closer. “Please, Artie. Let me touch you.”

“Okay. All right,” Artie soothed. “I’ll give you what you need. Just slow down, hmm?” This time, Jim let Artie separate them a little.

Jim tried to force himself to calm down, reaching for the iron control that had kept him going so recently. All he could find within himself was the frantic need to be as close to Artie as possible. Some inner observer laughed at him — if Artie was disturbed by the business with the punching dummy, what would be his reaction to this same furious energy directed at him?

Jim stepped away from Artie. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his partner cock his head inquiringly, and held up a hand to stay conversation. He had to think, and it was hard to do with Artie’s heat surrounding him.

And that was it, wasn’t it? Jim wanted to feel Artemus on him. He wanted undeniable proof that his partner was alive and with him. It wasn’t that he wanted to touch Artie, Jim wanted Artie to touch him, needed Artie to touch him deeply, to press indelibly into his flesh and mark Jim so deep that he wouldn’t, couldn’t, doubt the truth.

Now Jim knew what he wanted from his partner. The problem was telling Artemus. Asking for this was not something a man did. Jim didn’t worry that Artie’s feelings toward him might change with the request — whether Artie complied or not Jim knew their friendship and partnership were both strong and secure. What concerned Jim was the possibility — probability? — that Artie would refuse.

“Artemus?” Jim knew his voice betrayed his discomfort, but he was going through with this. It was in his nature to take all sorts of chances. What was one more?

“Yes?” That was Artie’s patient voice. He wasn’t going to push, no matter how much he wanted to know what was going on.

“You’re on the right track,” Jim picked up the previous conversation as if there had been no interruption. “Touching you helps, but not enough. I need more. I need you to touch me.”

“If you recall, James, my boy, I was touching you. I had you in my arms.”

“You weren’t touching my skin.”

“You mean, your skin, skin?” Artie gestured up and down, vaguely sketching out Jim’s body in the air.

“Yeah.” Jim felt a blush heat his cheeks.

Artemus stood silent, just looking at him. The light was uneven, but Jim thought he saw an answering pinkness on his partner’s face.

“Is that all?”

“All?”

“All. First it was touching, then it was kissing — you remember the kissing, right? — and now it’s touching bare skin. I’ve seen this progression before, Jim, and I know you. How far are you going to want to take this?”

Jim couldn’t help the half-smile as he murmured. “I guess you do know me.” He paused. How was he going to say this? He raised his head and looked his partner straight in the eye. “All the way, Artemus, if you’re willing.”

Jim watched expressions chase each other across his partner’s face too fast to interpret and wondered if he’d made a mistake. If Artie refused, Jim would be no worse off than he was now, but he’d be the first to admit, at least to himself and Artemus, that things were bad, and getting worse.

Jim kept watching as Artie glanced away. When he looked at Jim again, his face was unreadable.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. All right. I’m willing. All the way.”

Jim closed his eyes briefly and exhaled, relief making something in his chest go warm and liquid.

“Have you ever…?” Artemus continued. “With a man, I mean.”

“No.” Jim hesitated. He’d figured that Artie was… worldly… but it was still not the kind of assumption a man made lightly about another man. “I kinda figured that you…”

“Yeah, well…” Artie sounded uncharacteristically uncertain. “Not really. Not from that… perspective.”

This surprised Jim. He’d unconsciously supposed that Artie would be the dominant partner. “It doesn’t matter. You still know how it’s supposed to work. You can…”

“Yes. Yes, I can.” Artemus lost the hesitancy, returning to the self-assured man Jim knew and depended on. “You’ll have to get me ready. Or I could do it myself.” Artemus was being practical, thinking ahead, and damn it, he had it all wrong!

“No, Artie. You have it backwards.” Jim felt his face grow warm with embarrassment. “I want you to… to do it to me.”

Jim watched as his request sunk in. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d seen his partner speechless. It was actually a little satisfying. As he watched, Artemus swallowed heavily. What came out, though, wasn’t the ready agreement Jim had hoped for.

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.” Artemus was frowning, but his cheeks were flushed and his breathing was quick and shallow.

“You’ve done it before.” Jim forced himself to ignore a brief, hot flash of jealousy. “If you can do it with other men, why not with me?”

“I dunno, Jim.” Artie hesitated. “A man could come to regret that sort of thing, after.”

“I won’t regret it,” Jim was quick to answer.

“You’ve never done it. You said so yourself. How do you know what you’ll feel, afterward?”

“I’ll feel warm, Artie. Alive. I won’t be dead inside anymore. That’s what I need. To be alive again.” Then Jim had an uncomfortable thought. “Or do you mean you? Will you regret it, Artie?”

“Me? Never! It’s just… it will change things between us. It could end things, and I… well, frankly, I don’t want to risk that.”

“Artie, things have already changed, and the way I’m going, well, I’m not going to last this way. We both saw it.” Jim showed Artie his bandaged hands, as if his partner needed a reminder of what started this all.

Artemus nodded, but he still looked unsure.

“Don’t make me beg, Artemus.” Jim’s face was burning now. It was embarrassing enough to be asking for this. He was counting on Artie to keep it from becoming a humiliating failure.

“No, James. Never that.” Artie’s voice was gentle, and so was his hand as he grasped Jim’s shoulder and gave it a slight shake. Then Artemus smoothed his palm up along the side of Jim’s neck and cupped his jaw. He turned Jim’s head slightly, and bent his own so that their lips met in a deep, wet kiss.

Jim had his answer.

*****

  
As they kissed, Jim felt Artie’s hands on his chest, undoing his buttons and sliding his shirt off. The feel of Artie’s big palms against his bare skin made Jim strain forward, searching for more contact.

For a moment, Artemus humored him. He smoothed his hands over Jim’s bare shoulders and back, leaving warm trails in their wake. Then he did the same to Jim’s front, making Jim shiver as he touched the sensitive skin of his ribcage and belly.

Just as Jim was relaxing into the touch, Artie moved away, and Jim found himself leaning forward, following blindly after his partner.

“Hold on,” Artie said, amused, as he slipped his braces off his shoulders. “I’m just evening things out.”

Jim smiled a little at his own foolishness. Then his breath quickened as he watched Artemus unfasten his cuffs and shirtfront and start taking off his shirt. His partner’s chest was broad and powerful. Jim had the sudden urge to press his own bare chest against Artie’s. It took him a second to realize he could. If they were going to… If Artemus was going to do as he’d agreed, they’d be touching much more intimately in a few moments. An embrace now would merely start things up.

Jim stepped forward and shoved the sleeves the rest of the way down Artie’s arms and over his hands. He stepped even closer, wrapped his arms around his partner, and pressed himself against him. Artie’s arms came up immediately, and his eyelids fluttered shut. Jim watched as some intense emotion creased Artie’s brow and made his throat move in a convulsive swallow. It was gone in an instant, and Artemus opened his eyes and tightened his hold, pressing their bare chests together from shoulders to waist.

Artie was kissing Jim again, and stroking his back, and the physical sensations could not be denied. They chased the numbness from his body and heart, and he reveled in the way his nerves woke up and rejoiced. Jim was so busy feeling that he didn’t notice Artie moving them until the backs of his legs bumped gently against the bed.

“Lie down, James.” It was a whisper, as Artemus pushed at Jim’s shoulders. Jim obeyed, laying his suddenly sensitized skin against the bed sheets while Artie’s hands worked at the fastenings of his pants. “Lift your hips. Yeah, that’s it.” Artemus stripped off Jim’s trousers and smalls, and ran his hands up and down Jim’s flanks.

Jim hungrily tilted his hips and Artie chuckled softly. “So beautiful,” he murmured.

“I’m not one of your women, Artie. You don’t have to sweet talk me,” Jim said dryly.

“Right. No sweet talk.” Artemus’s lips twisted into a bitter smile that was gone so fast Jim doubted that it had been there at all. Before Jim could comment, Artemus lay down beside him, propped himself on an elbow and took Jim into his mouth.

Jim arched and cried out at the hot wet suction. He was only half hard when Artie started, but his prick sprang to full attention within seconds. Jim hadn’t expected this. It felt good, but Jim was sure that the only way he’d get himself back was to have Artie surround him, penetrate him and mark him, in and out.

“Hey, no, Artie. This isn’t…”

Artemus left off sucking and lifted his head so that he could spear Jim with a stern look. “James, I know what you want, and believe me, I’ll get you there.” He emphasized the statement with a thrust of his hips against Jim’s leg, demonstrating his own unmistakable interest. “But you have to trust me. I will _not_ hurt you, and I plan to make sure we both enjoy this. So we do this my way, or we don’t do this at all.”

“But—”

“Uh!” Artie held up a hand. “You just lie back and feel. Isn’t that what this is all about, anyway?”

Jim had to concede Artie’s point, so in answer, he relaxed back onto the bed, and spread his legs in invitation.

“That’s right, James, my boy.” Artie patted Jim’s thigh, then his mouth was on Jim again.

Jim had never felt anything like this. Once or twice he’d had a woman use her mouth on him, in the more sophisticated brothels of San Francisco or New Orleans, but that had been nothing to what Artie was doing to him now. His partner played him with virtuoso skill. First it was simple suction. Then Artie started using his tongue, swirling it around Jim, working it gently under his foreskin, pressing it flat and firm along the underside. Then, Oh, Lord! Teeth! Not much, but a few nips just at the sensitive spot under the head, a few nibbles up and down the big vein.

Jim tried to stay silent, but he couldn’t, little gasps and soft moans escaping his lips. When one particularly hard suck had him groaning, Artemus hummed in response, and the vibration brought Jim curling off the bed as if electrified. Jim was sure he was going to spend, but Artie immediately backed off, and Jim felt his climax recede.  
Again Artemus brought Jim to the brink without letting him spill, and a third time. Each time the brink was higher, and Jim knew he was gripping the sheet and moaning non-stop. He had no idea it was possible to be so aroused. He’d never before handed over control of his body like this. If Artie would only let him come!

“Artie. Please. Oh God. Please!”

Jim distantly heard his partner’s wicked chuckle as he again denied Jim his release.

When Artie started the climb for the fourth time, he added yet another touch. Artie had spent a little time nosing and licking Jim’s scrotum. He’d even sucked each stone gently into his mouth. Now Artie kept his mouth on Jim’s prick, and started to touch Jim with his hands, his wicked, skillful hands. Slick and warm, they stroked lightly over his scrotum, then ran up and down behind his stones, pressing in a way that made Jim squirm. Each pass, a little farther back along that sensitive area, each pass just a little firmer.

The combined sensation made Jim shudder all over. Artie’s hand went away, and Jim whined high in his throat at the loss. Then the hand returned, slicker than before, and Artie’s blunt fingers skated gently over Jim’s opening.

Jim tensed. No-one had ever touched him there. Artie continued to work Jim’s prick with his mouth, and to move his fingers along sensitive flesh, and soon Jim relaxed again. The next time Artie’s fingers moved over his hole, he managed to stay loose. The touch was soft and over almost before it had begun, but it left a residual heat that lingered a surprisingly long time. When Artemus touched him there again, Jim moved into it before he knew what he was doing, and at the fourth touch, he found himself spreading his legs wider and pushing into Artie’s hand.

Artemus hummed approvingly and rewarded Jim with a skillful twist of his tongue and a firm finger circling his sensitive pucker.

Jim lay splayed on the bed and let his partner pleasure him with mouth and hands. He lost track of time as Artie’s talented lips and tongue made his prick throb with anticipation, and as Artie’s slick fingers rubbed and pressed at a part of his body he’d never thought could be sensitive.

Jim had long ago stopped trying to keep quiet, and he barely recognized

his own voice in the broken sentences that escaped his lips. “Yes… Artie, please… God… Artemus…”

His partner didn’t answer, not even the muffled laughter from before. He just kept pushing Jim higher and higher.

“Ah!” A sudden intrusion forced the exclamation. Artie had pushed his finger inside!

Artie kept his hand still, and eased his mouth to a gentle sucking, giving Jim a moment. If he couldn’t tolerate a finger, the rest of Jim’s plan would have to be scrapped. He considered as best he could, strung out as he was on the warm wetness of Artie’s mouth and the intense sensations emanating from his core. He considered the unaccustomed intrusion, and the _wrongness_ of being touched there, entered there. Then he considered the sensations themselves. There was no pain, just heat and, surprisingly, a throbbing need for _more_.

“Go on…” Jim sounded choked, even to himself. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Go on, Artie. It’s good. I want it. Go on.”

Artie went on. His mouth went back to working Jim’s prick, and his finger went back to circling, but now it was circling inside Jim, stretching him, a little at a time, and penetrating deeper. It was odd, and it was exciting, and it felt so good. Jim had never realized how good that part of him could feel, how good being touched there could make the rest of him feel.

Jim drifted, unthinking. His prick was surrounded by heat and suction. His ass was sparking with new sensations. He rocked forward into Artie’s mouth and back onto his fingers, his hips moving unconsciously. Jim felt like he could go on like this forever.

Then Artie touched something inside him and a white-hot bolt of pleasure sped along his spine. Suddenly, desperately, Jim needed his climax. Jim was so far gone, so desperate to reach the summit. If Artie denied him again, he’d surely go mad.

Artemus sensed the need he’d created, and didn’t disappoint Jim. He pressed hard once more on that magical place inside Jim, sucking at the same time, and Jim exploded. His release crashed over him like the flash flood that had swept Artemus away all those months ago. Jim shouted his partner’s name, and then again, a near-sob, “Oh, God, Artie!”

Jim could feel Artie’s generous mouth drinking down everything Jim gave up, and with a last whisper, “Artie,” Jim let himself go into white nothingness.

*****

  
Jim woke to his own moaning. He was face down now, and Artie’s finger was still inside him. No, Artie’s fingers. He was stretched wider, and felt fuller, but he had no experience to know if this was two fingers, or three, or Artie’s whole damn hand. All he knew was that there was still no pain, his hips were moving to the rhythm that Artie set, and God help him, his prick was trying to get hard again as he rubbed it against the sheets.

“Artie?”

“Back with me?”

“Yeah. What _was_ that?”

“That?” Artie sounded amused. “That was a release, James. It happens to a man now and then, if he’s lucky.”

Jim shifted up onto one elbow so that he could give his partner a dirty look over his shoulder. He was careful not to dislodge Artie’s hand from its task, and decided not to think about what _that_ meant.

The stern glare Jim was trying to aim at Artie suffered when he wobbled on his elbow. His muscles were like water, as if all the tension had been drained out of him. He decided to save whatever face he had left and settled down onto the bed again.

It was just so hard to think when Artemus kept doing those… things… to Jim with his fingers. Part of Jim wished he had the energy to look back and see what was going on, and part was just as happy to lie there and take whatever his partner dished out.

Apparently, that part was the stronger one. When, a moment later, Artie took his hand away, Jim heard himself objecting with whimper.

“Shhh. Just getting more oil.” Artie patted the back of Jim’s thigh.

“More _what_?”

“Cooking oil. Slipperiest thing I could find. You can’t do this dry, James. I told you. I will _not_ hurt you.”

“Uh…” Jim wondered distantly how they were going to explain oily sheets to the laundress, but forgot all about that when Artie’s hand came back. Jim felt himself being opened further than before. It burned, and he tensed.

“Three fingers, James,” Artie murmured, as he moved them around inside Jim, stretching him even more. The burning was getting worse, bordering on pain, and Jim was about to object when Artemus pushed his hand against Jim’s body and pressed that spot inside him, hard.

“Aaah!”

The combination of the fullness and the pressure and that touch made Jim arch his back, and his prick went from trying to rock hard so fast he got dizzy.

Jim lay gasping on the bed as Artie kept pressing whatever it was that sparked inside him. Not as hard as that first push, but steadily enough that Jim couldn’t catch his breath. That touch, combined with the sensation of Artie’s fingers holding him open, had Jim wanting something more. He wasn’t sure what, but what Artie was doing wasn’t enough, not nearly enough.

“Oh, God, Artie. Please, I need… I need…”

“What, James. Tell me what you need.” Artie twisted his fingers inside Jim’s body.

“Aaah! I don’t know! I just… You know what I need… Please…”

“You want me inside you, James? You want me to put my prick in you? You want me to fuck you?” Artie’s voice was thick, his choice of words uncharacteristically coarse.

Artie’s raw words just made Jim hotter. He squirmed on Artie’s hand, pushing back for more sensation. “Jesus! Yeah, Artie. Yes!”  
Artemus took his hand away.

“No! Artie!” Jim pushed himself around. What he saw froze the rest of his protest on his lips.

Artemus was kneeling between Jim’s legs. Artie’s thick hair was disheveled. His chest was heaving, his eyes dark and wild. His hand was on his own prick, which stood out stiff and angry from his body. He was the personification of aroused maleness — a feral satyr who would slake his desires according to his own wishes, and no-one else’s.

Jim had already had his release, but Artie had been hard and ready since they’d started. He must be desperate for it now, and all this time, he’d controlled himself and concentrated on Jim. Jim was awed and a little afraid. Now Artie would be wanting his, and Jim had placed himself entirely at his partner’s mercy.

Then Jim remembered that he’d had to practically force Artie to do this, and as he watched his partner spread his prick with glistening oil, Jim was reminded of what his partner had said — _I will_ not _hurt you_. Jim believed him. Jim believed _in_ him.

“C’mon, Artie. I want this. I need this. I need you.”

Jim watched Artie’s full lips quirk into an affectionate smile. Then he turned his back on Artemus and lowered himself onto his elbows and knees, leaving himself exposed and vulnerable, trusting Artemus to take care of him, as he always had.

Artie didn’t keep him waiting long. Jim felt him shift up behind him, felt the warmth of Artie’s body along his legs, then all along his back as his partner bent over him to place a series of soft, open-mouthed kisses across his shoulders. The gentle touch made him shiver. Jim could feel each carefully-placed finger of the hands that held his hips. The head of Artie’s prick snugged up against Jim’s opening, but didn’t press in.

Artemus laid his head briefly against Jim’s neck. “Oh, James. So beautiful,” he murmured into the soft skin at Jim’s nape.

Jim felt his breath catch at the tenderness in Artie’s voice, the naked longing in the way he said Jim’s name. Jim had been prepared for rough, fast, even painful, yet here was Artemus, holding him like a precious thing. Since they started, Artie had been treating him like something to be treasured and savored. With a flash of insight, Jim realized that he’d had to talk his partner into doing this not because Artie didn’t want it, but because Artie wanted it too much.

Jim’s own gratitude and affection swelled at the realization, and he craned his neck awkwardly so that he could kiss Artie.

“C’mon Artie,” Jim said softly as he nudged back into the cradle of his partner’s hips. “Let’s go.”

“James…” Artemus breathed against his lips, then slowly, inexorably, pushed forward, sliding into Jim’s loosened hole until he was pressed deeply inside.

When he felt Artie’s bulk filling him, hard and hot, and felt Artie’s body arching over him, and Artie’s arm come around him, and Artie’s heart beating against his back, Jim shuddered. The last of the ice evaporated like steam, the numbness fled, and every nerve Jim had came alive and sparked.

“Oh, God, Artie. Move!” he ground out.

Artemus moved. Pulling out slowly. Pressing back in. Again and again, adjusting his angle until every stroke hit that spot, sending bolts of sensation through Jim’s entire body.

Jim shuddered with each powerful thrust. His arms gave out and his shoulders dropped to the bed. He knew he was moaning again, but couldn’t stop or control it. After months of nothingness, the sensations burned, a bonfire where before there had been only ice. As if he were standing too close to a fire, Jim could feel his skin stretch brittle and tight, unable to hold in what he was feeling.

Artemus, usually so talkative, barely said a word. Just Jim’s name, softly, reverently, as he held Jim and moved inside him with breaths that caught like sobs.

That sound, the throb of Artie’s voice, set off an explosion deep in Jim’s chest. Something broke open, and everything that Jim had been afraid to feel all those months came pouring out. Jim shuddered violently, his moans became sobs, he pushed back hard into Artie’s strokes, urging him wordlessly to go harder, deeper.

Artemus, bless him, didn’t stop. He held him tighter, fucked into him harder, gave him more. And when Artie reached down and grasped Jim’s prick, it took only two strokes for Jim to shoot, crying out his partner’s name and spasming around the thickness that still pounded inside him.

Jim would have collapsed onto the bed, enervated by two such intense climaxes, but Artie didn’t let him. The hand that had been on his prick slid across his hips and the other hand wrapped across his chest and he felt himself lifted upright to sit on Artie’s knees, gravity driving Artemus even deeper into his body.

Jim let his head loll back onto Artie’s shoulder. He tried to help raise and lower himself to the new rhythm, but was so drained he could barely move. In the end, Jim just sagged bonelessly in Artie’s arms and let his partner use his body as he wished for his own pleasure.

It seemed to take forever, and yet, it was too soon when Artemus’s breath came harsh on his cheek and his rhythm stuttered and went jerky. The arms across Jim’s torso tightened like iron bands as his partner arched backwards and thrust his hips forward, pushing impossibly further in and holding himself there, moaning Jim’s name as he reached his own completion. Jim shuddered one final time as he felt Artie pulsing and the wash of heat inside him, signaling Artie’s living, breathing, so very much alive, release.

They stayed there, just for a second, Jim with his head on Artie’s shoulder, Artie breathing like a bellows, before they tipped over to land curled up together on the bed. Artemus lay close behind Jim, arms wrapped around him, slowly softening prick still inside him. Jim was sure their hearts were beating in tandem as they lay spooned together, silent and connected.

Jim floated there, content in Artie’s arms, not thinking, just feeling. After so long, feeling.

When Artemus finally pulled out, Jim distantly noted the minor pain. Then Artie shifted and drew away, and that Jim objected to with a wordless mutter and a flail of his hand.

“Shhh. Be right back, James, my boy.” Artemus was as good as his word, and returned with a bowl of water and a cloth. Jim hissed and twitched when the rag passed over his sensitive opening, but the cool water felt good on the irritated flesh.

Soon enough, Artemus put the basin aside and slipped back into bed, pulling the sheet up to cover them against the chill.

Echoes of his climax still throbbing through his body, Jim felt the warmth as Artemus settled alongside him. He couldn’t remember when he’d last felt so alive. He turned on his side and shifted closer, throwing an arm across Artie’s chest. He could feel his partner’s blessed heartbeat, sure and steady, under his hand.

Jim felt his exhausted prick twitch as he snugged his groin against his partner’s hip. Oh yes, he was definitely coming back to life. He silently reassured that part of his body that there would be more, just not now. Which reminded him that Artemus had at first offered to be the receptive partner, and that thought brought on another, stronger twitch.

“Hey, Artie,” Jim asked lightly, “does your earlier offer still stand? Because next time, I’d like to try switching places.”

Artie went still for a long moment, then dislodged Jim’s arm and heaved himself up on one elbow to focus piercingly on Jim’s face. A knot formed in Jim’s chest when he realized he may have presumed too much. What if this was a single occurrence, granted to him by a friend who feared for his life and sanity? Jim was beginning to run excuses through his head when Artie’s face split into a huge grin and he started laughing.

“Next time?! James!” Artemus leaned down to pepper kisses all over Jim’s face.

Jim felt his own answering smile bloom, and raised his face to Artie’s like a flower to the sun. Jim had his partner back, and more, and he would never again let him go.


End file.
